Page 35 of Wicked Spite
“God, I hate you,” she mutters, storming off toward the door, but I can hear the conflict in her voice.
“Make that fifty minutes, Reagan!” I call after her, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice. “Don’t be late.”
“Go to hell, psycho!” she yells back.
I spend the next hour cleaning up the mess I made in the house and changing my own clothes.
I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, twirling my keys around my finger. Reagan reappears—ripped jeans, combat boots, band t-shirt. Wifey’s little signature look.
“Nice look,” I comment, tossing her a black riding jacket. She catches it mid-air, eyes still burning with residual anger.
“Fuck you,” she mutters, though there’s a flicker of something softer beneath thevenom.
“You would like that too much,” I retort, slipping on my own jacket. We head outside, the mid-morning air crisp and biting. My bike gleams under the sunlight, two matte black helmets perched on it. So, I got us his and hers lids, and she better fucking appreciate it.
“Are you going to drug me again?” Reagan spits, her words laced with venom as I move behind her. “I fail to see how you’ll get me on your two wheels of death, then.”
“Shut up, you sexy, mouthy bitch. You had no problem with the bike before, so stop being combative because it’s your go-to defense mechanism,” I growl, fingers deftly weaving her long, dark hair into a tight braid. Her hair is fucking silky soft, and I hate how fucking comforting I find it to have my fingers in it.
“Seriously, Penn?” She tries to twist around, but I hold her steady, forcing her to face forward.
“Hold still.” My voice is rough, almost tender, in its command. “There, now put your fucking helmet on. I don’t want to listen to any bitching about hair in your face, or it being tangled, or any other countless things you can think of to bitch about.”
She huffs, clearly annoyed, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes. Gratitude? Hell, if I know. She snatches the helmet from my hand and shoves it on, adjusting the strap with quick, angry movements.
“Happy now?” she snaps, though her tone lacks its usual edge.
“Ecstatic.” I strap on my own helmet, feeling the familiar weight settle over me like a second skin. The world narrows to just us and the bike.
“Let’s go, wifey.” I mount the bike, holding out my hand like the fucking gentleman I am obviously.
“Don’t call me that,” she mutters, yet her fingers slip into mine, warm and surprisingly soft. She swings her leg over the seat, settling in behind me.
“You’re the only person I’ve let ride bitch on my bike,” I add, strapping on my own helmet. “Except that one time I picked Graham up after he blew a tire. But don’t mention that to him; he’d lose his shit.”
“Whatever,” she grumbles, her annoyance palpable.
As the engine roars to life, I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline.
“Hold on tight,” I shout over the noise, feeling her arms wrap around me.
We pull up to the St. Charles campus with Reagan gripping my waist like I was going a hundred down highway twenty-four. I mean I was, but she was never in danger. I am an impeccable rider. I rev the engine to gain entirely too many people’s attention. She hates this, and honestly, that might be why I love it so much.
“Hey, Mike! This is Reagan, my wife!” I shout over the engine, pointing at some random dude who looks like he just saw a ghost. His eyes widen, and he stammers out a greeting before scurrying away.
“Fucking hell, psycho,” Reagan mutters into my back, voice dripping with irritation.
“Careful, Mrs. Blackwood. Lucky for you, Coach would have my fucking ass and I’m already on thin ice. Otherwise, I’d be dragging your ass into the locker room, making sure everysingle one of those meatheads knows exactly who you are.” My words slither out, part threat, part promise. She groans, and I can feel the tension radiating off her.
We park, and I pull her off the bike, keeping an iron grip on her waist as we wade through the crowd. Eyes follow us like we’re royalty. And we are the first Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood.
I walk us right into our first class of the day and when she sees the course name; I feel her run right into my back.
“Serial Homicide? What the fuck, is this a joke?” Reagan snaps as we walk into the classroom.
“Not a joke, babe. Easy A for me. Who better to debate about killers than one?” I flash her my best smirk.
“I don’t even have the fucking words for you and…this.” She sweeps her hand around the classroom and I just shrug. I wasn’t lying. This is an easy class for me and also very informative. It helps with my extracurriculars.
